THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.
Future Ministers Learn How to Box.
Classes in boxing and wrestling have been introduced at Willamette University as regular required athletic sports. Willamette is a Methodist institution, in Salem, Ore., which educates young men for the ministry as one of the branches of its work. The boxing classes are conducted on the tournament plan, in order that every man may engage in at least two fistic contests.
Carrier Pigeon as a Mascot.
Dining car No. 211, attached to the Great Northern trains running between Seattle, Portland, and Spokane, has acquired a mascot in the shape of a carrier pigeon that apparently prefers the hazardous existence of a railroader to wild, free life on the wing. The pigeon was found lying half frozen near the depot, and one of the porters took the pigeon into the kitchen and fed and warmed it back to life, and the grateful bird responded to the kind treatment by refusing to leave when it had completely recovered.
For Accurate Cutting.
It is difficult to do all kinds of accurate cutting with ordinary shears. Considering the length of time shears have been in use, it seems strange that there have not been more departures from the old type. An inventor has come forward with an improvement for the cutting of patterns and similar work. These shears have a side extension, and it is claimed that they make accurate work much easier, as with them the operator is enabled to follow the markings, for the reason that he can see all around the cutting blades as they pass through the material.
Farmer Kills the Wild Boar.
The much-discussed wild boar which for a month has excited the inhabitants of the farming districts north of West Brookfield Center, Mass., is dead. Henry Bishop killed it.
Bishop was attracted by the disturbed action of his dog, and taking his gun, started for the piggery near the brook, in the rear of his farm. He suddenly saw the animal coming toward him through the swamp, and fired, the shot piercing the boar in the back, breaking his spine.
Mr. Bishop loaded his captive on a sled and brought it to the barn, where it was found to weigh only 125 pounds. The severe weather to which the animal was exposed, and the lack of food, tended to reduce its weight.
Mink Farm Latest in Fur-producing Line.
F.C. Tibbetts, of Portland, Me., proposes to breed mink for the pelt. He has studied the mink for years, has corresponded with producers of mink and purchasers of mink hides. He finds that mink fur is a very desirable sort of fur. Not only is it warm, but it is smooth and of fine texture and has remarkable heat-producing qualities.
It has also been demonstrated to him that the mink will thrive in Maine, or, at least, it should thrive there. The climate and soil conditions, he says, are just right for the mink, and the best spot in Maine is down on Deer Island, Casco Bay. It is there he proposes to establish his mink farm.
It may surprise folks to know that the mink is a highly civilized animal. In many respects he bears a marked resemblance to the human family.
Most people have a notion that the mink prefers a hole in the ground as a place of abode to anything else in the world. Perish the thought! Tibbetts says it is not so. His say-so is backed up by his investigations and years of study of the mink family.
He says that given his choice between a hole in the ground and a box filled with clean straw, the rent being the same, Mr. and Mrs. Mink will decide in favor of the box. Likewise, once having set up housekeeping in the box, the mink family will never make the error of crawling into any other box. They know their own box from the box of any other mink family. This is something worth knowing about mink.
Tibbetts has found that ranch-bred mink are the best with which to start a mink farm. He says they are hardy and reproduce rapidly. He feels that the venture will prove a success. A good mink pelt is worth from nine to thirteen dollars.
Man Selects Coffin for Himself and Wife.
“I have practically lived it through,” said former Mayor William L. Rice, of Bristol, Va., when this week he entered an undertaking establishment in Bristol and purchased two low-priced coffins—one for himself and one for his wife.
Mrs. Rice was at first opposed to the idea of having the coffins placed in the home where the aged couple reside alone, but after hearing the reasons advanced by her husband, she made no further objection, and is reconciled.
Foreman of Jeff Davis Jury.
Josiah Millard, eighty-nine years old, of Baltimore, Md., a friend of President Lincoln and foreman of the jury that convicted Jefferson Davis of treason, recently married Miss Martha E. Streeks, twenty-six years his junior. The wedding was in accordance with the deathbed wish of Millard’s first wife, who died five years ago, and who had been nursed by Miss Streeks.
Millard is a native of Massachusetts, but lived in Virginia at the outbreak of the war. His Union sympathies got him into trouble, and he was the first Union man arrested during the war.
Appointed internal-revenue assessor by Lincoln, he was removed by Johnson, but reappointed by Grant, and held office until it was abolished. He has since held Federal appointments.
Record of One Bird’s Meal.
A student at the University of Wisconsin, who is making experiments in the food consumption of birds, has under observation a little bird, known as the Virginia rail, which in the course of two days eats more than its own weight in food. Although the bird weighs only a half pound, its menu of one day recently consisted of one caterpillar, fifteen flies, one stickleback fish, 2½ inches long; two small sunfish, 1½ inches long; one water scorpion, three inches long; three water bugs, twelve meal worms, twelve grasshoppers, and fourteen amphipoda. Live hornets do not cause any irritation. It ate five of them on this same day. To the above add one crawfish, two inches long; one snake, eight inches long; and one frog, 1½ inches long.
Eugenics Law Slams Cupid.
The State board of health, of Wisconsin, in its annual report shows that since the eugenics law went into effect January 1, 1914, the number of marriages in Wisconsin dropped 3,800. In 1913 there were 21,052 marriages and in 1914 only 17,252.
There were in 1914, however, eighty-seven recorded common-law marriages, just as valid in law as the ceremony kind, but not under eugenic requirements. The State board says many persons went into some other State to be married rather than submit to the medical examination.
Electric Trap Kills Rats.
Employees of a livery barn at Greencastle, Ind., have found a new way of killing rats caught around the barn. They have arranged a trap so that it can be attached to an electrically charged wire. When the current is turned on, the rats in the trap are shocked so severely that they live only a few minutes.
Dying, He Saves Train from Wreck.
Mortally wounded by a pistol shot, Kihara, Japanese section foreman, used the last of his strength to set a torpedo on the tracks of the Salt Lake route near Milford, Utah, to save the east-bound Pacific Limited train from possible wreck.
Kihara was shot by Mexicans who composed his force. They fled, leaving the hand car on the rails. The wounded man tried in vain to remove the car alone, and then dragged himself down the track with a torpedo, which he placed to check the train. The train stopped in response to the signal and brought Kihara to Milford, where he died.
Spoils Tooth on Raw Oyster.
F.J. Ham, of New York, broke a gold tooth crown on a pearl in a raw oyster at the Royal James Inn, at South Norwalk, Conn. Mr. Ham was indignant until a jeweler told him the pearl was worth fifty dollars. He says he is willing to break some more ten-dollar gold crowns on fifty-dollar pearls.
When Noise Breaks a Window.
Noise is an irregular wave in the air—which is a real thing, and has weight and power, remember. A wave of air may break a window exactly as the wave in the sea will break a breakwater, though, as the name tells us, the breakwater will break the wave, as long as that wave is not too strong.
If you will think a minute you will see that every time a noise gets through a shut window it shakes the window. If the noise is coming in from the street, the air outside is thrown into waves which pass through it until they strike the window, and shake it; then the window shakes the air inside the room in exactly the same way as the air outside shook it, only perhaps not quite so strongly. And so the noise reaches you, just as if you had heard it outside, only not quite so loud. Well, plainly, the noise has only to be loud enough—that is to say, the waves in the air have only to be big enough—to shake the window more than it can stand, and then it breaks.
Odd Real-estate Discovery.
For over thirty years four well-known families of Appleton, Wis., have been living in homes they supposed they owned, but did not. They bought on pocket-map description instead of official map. John Freude owns the home of William Moyle, across the street from him, and Moyle owns Freude’s supposed home. The same situation is found in the cases of Peter Zonne and Edward Jennerjahn.
How Much Does Snow Weigh?
Handbooks of useful information, as they are called, do not give the weight of a cubic foot of snow, so Charles S. Evans and Leonard S. Jones, lawyers, of Edenburg, Pa., carefully measured a cubic foot of the wet snow which fell on Tuesday and found it weighed 14.58 pounds.
Wednesday and Thursday were very cold, and much of the dampness in the snow evaporated. Evans and Jones overlooked this fact when they wagered Elmer Davis and Edward O. Jones that snow weighs 14.58 pounds to the cubic foot.
When the quartet weighed a second foot of snow it was found to weigh 11.97 pounds. Then Evans and Jones entertained at dinner.
Belled Buzzard in Georgia.
That mysterious creature, “the belled buzzard,” has made its appearance in Banks County, Ga., for the first time in fifty years. Just after the war closed, a buzzard was captured near the Line Church by Reuben Jordan, and a small bell fastened around its neck. It flew straight into the air and turned southward swiftly.
A few days ago Connie N. Watts was going along the road near Hallingsworth and heard a bell tinkling in the air. He looked up and there was a buzzard right over his head. Connie believes, as do many of the older folks of the neighborhood, that it was the same belled buzzard turned loose fifty years ago.
Schoolboy Blinded by Ink.
Sitting at his desk in the Hershey, Pa., High School, Raymond Shrismer, a member of the senior class, accidentally upset his ink bottle. Some of the fluid splashed into his open eyes and he startled the school by screaming: “I am blind.”
He was rushed to a specialist, but it is feared he will never recover his eyesight. It is believed that the ink contained some powerful chemical that resulted in paralysis of the optic nerve. Teachers say that Raymond is one of the best pupils of his class.
Let Hair and Whiskers Grow.
“Let your hair grow and defy the doctors,” is the health creed of Andrew Snellgrove, aged seventy-five, of Ann Arbor, Mich., who never had a hair cut, never had a shave—and has never consulted a doctor.
Snellgrove was a circuit rider in the Middle West in the early sixties, but, despite the many hardships he endured, he was never ill. He believes he owes his health to his whiskers. “My whiskers protected my throat, just as nature intended they should do. My hair protected my neck. I never caught cold, was never sick. Why shave, anyway?”
“Wish This Done,” Signed A. Lincoln.
A letter, faded with age, bearing a single line: “Wish this done. A. Lincoln,” is one of the treasured possessions of Captain Daniel Delehanty, U.S.N., now stationed at Pelham, N.Y. And back of it is a story that is now given to the public.
In the darkest period of the Civil War, President Lincoln was bowed by trouble. He summoned Henry Ward Beecher and Archbishop John Hughes, of New York, to Washington. It looked, he told them, as if the Confederacy would be recognized by England and France. He sent Henry Ward Beecher to England and Archbishop Hughes to France to talk in the cities and towns and arouse sympathy for the cause of the North.
The archbishop was the first to return, reporting that France had small sympathy with the North, particularly among the better classes. Bad as this news was, the president was grateful to the archbishop for his report. He thanked him and added that if there was anything he could do for the archibishop personally he should be glad.
The archbishop replied that there was nothing—but just as he was about to leave, he said:
“There is a boy, the son of a dear friend of mine, who wishes to be a soldier, but he is too young. If he could go to West Point——”
When the archbishop left, it was with the assurance that the boy would be admitted.
When he returned to New York, he summoned the lad and told him that the president had offered him an appointment to West Point.
But Daniel Delehanty—for he it was—instead of being overjoyed, said: “I want to go to Annapolis.”
“But there is no help for it now; the president appointed you to West Point, and there you go,” returned the archbishop.
Finally, however, the archbishop promised that, if by the next day he still felt averse to it, he would write the president that the appointment could not be accepted. Next day the boy returned and said he couldn’t resign himself to going to West Point.
“Well, I can ask the president to change the appointment,” the archbishop said. “But if you want to go to Washington yourself, I’ll write a letter to him.”
The archbishop wrote the letter, telling the boy that in all probability he would not see the president, but to see ——, and if it was possible, he would arrange it for him.
Off started the boy. He found the man the archbishop had told him about, and told him of the letter. The man, a messenger for the president, made him wait a minute. On his return, he said he had called the president out of a cabinet meeting, and that he was waiting at the head of the stairs.
The boy mounted the stairs. In recalling the incident, Captain Delehanty says that his most vivid recollection is of a pair of slippers which the president wore, with embroidered eyes on them. They so fascinated the flustered boy that he kept his eyes on them; they looked like tiger’s eyes. He was standing speechless, his eyes glued to the slippers, when he heard the president say: “You have a letter to me from Archbishop Hughes?”
The boy held out the letter. The president read it and then asked: “You want to go to Annapolis?”
“Yes, Mr. Lincoln.”
The president placed the letter against the wall and added the line:
“I wish this done.
A. Lincoln.”
A wild desire to tell this tall, sad-eyed man how much it meant to him raced through the boy’s head. All kinds of grateful speeches crowded his brain. But all he said was: “Mr. President, you’ll never regret what you have done this day.”
The president smiled and turned back to the door of the cabinet room, while the lad, his self-possession returned, bounded away to the navy department. Within half an hour he had his appointment to the naval academy.
Great are the Claims of “Conjure Man.”
In most of the old “before-the-war” towns of Missouri there is an ancient negro who is regarded with superstitious reverence by a good many more people than will confess it. This individual is known as the “Conjure Man,” and many of the darkies who smile when they talk about him will slip around and invoke his aid in cases of distress.
The Conjure Man always professes the deepest piety. Were he in league with evil spirits, no negro would go within a mile of him. It is only the good spirits he calls upon. In nearly every case the Conjure Man is ignorant, but wonderfully cunning. He is generally honest, however, in supposing that he has some sort of a gift that will ward off evil influences. You can find in Missouri a great many old white people who will, in a somewhat backward way, admit that they have the same sort of influence.
The Conjure Man labors to create the impression that nothing is impossible for him. He will sell, for a moderate consideration, good-luck charms to bring lovers together. He will visit a home where there has been domestic trouble for the purpose of locating and driving out evil influences. When anything goes wrong, it is always the devil sowing seeds of discord, and it is the Conjure Man’s province to find where these seeds are planted and to yank them out by the roots.
There perambulates about some northern Missouri towns a distinguished member of the profession known as “Blue Jacket.” He is nigh on to eighty, but will cheerfully admit to one hundred if pressed. You might call Blue Jacket the dean of the Conjure Men, for his years and reputed cures well entitle him to the distinction.
One evil day doubts crept into the mind of a Macon negro regarding his wife’s fidelity, and he sent an urgent message to Blue Jacket to come a-runnin’ and remove the baleful influence. Blue Jacket came promptly and after sniffing about the yard, told his client that in a board buried in the yard was an old rusty nail which kept a house vine from growing; that in order to relieve the domestic turmoil it would be necessary to find and remove that nail, and that it would cost—after a deal of calculation—twenty-nine dollars and six bits. The distressed client produced the money and Blue Jacket pulled out a bottle and attached a fishing line. Then he went about the yard, holding the thing up, and talking in a queer lingo. Presently the “diviner” began to oscillate, and Blue Jacket asked for a spade. In a few minutes he found an old board, near the wall, and, sure enough, there was a rusty nail in it, which had been touching the roots of the house vine.
It looked like a gilt-edged conjure job, and the client would have been entirely satisfied had not his wife eloped that night with the man of whom he was jealous. The prosecuting attorney was appealed to the next day for a warrant against Blue Jacket, but the officer told the troubled husband that according to his own story, Blue Jacket was only agreeing to find a board with a rusty nail in it, and he had done it.
Blue Jacket was once commissioned to find out who was stealing coal from a colored Baptist church in Macon County. Inside of twelve hours he had a confession from the janitor. It was looked upon as a most miraculous case for a while, and then somebody found how it was done. Blue Jacket went at the job in a commonsense way. He examined the church coal bin and saw steps leading from it to the janitor’s home, and alongside the footprints were small particles of coal which had sifted through the leaky bucket.
“It is a remarkable thing how strong a hold the Conjure Man has upon some of the negroes, particularly in the South,” remarked the Reverend A.F. Jenkins, who was formerly pastor of the African M.E. Church at Keota, another mining town of Macon County. “One of the most noted of whom I recall just now was known as ‘Doctor’ George Jones. He practiced all through Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana. A Conjure Man with a reputation gets calls from a wider territory than the most noted of physicians. And he charges just what he wants, and generally gets his money down before he turns a peg. The president is impressed with no greater dignity than the Conjure Man with a reputation. And once he turns a trick which gives him standing, it is mighty hard to discredit him.
“I was in charge of the church at Vicksburg when I first had the pleasure of meeting the renowned ‘Doctor’ Jones. He was about fifty years of age, but over one hundred in impressiveness and dignity. From somewhere he had collected a lot of big, grandly sounding words and scientific terms with which he paralyzed his more ignorant constituents, which they took for inspired utterance. I begged my people to let him alone. He sent word if I didn’t quit interfering with his business he would set the witches on me. When I heard of that threat I resolved to give him a chance. One day when some of my members were talking with me, Doctor Jones came along, walking very stately down the street.
“‘Doctor,’ said I, ‘I’ve just been telling these people you were a humbug, and that I wasn’t afraid of all the witches you could turn loose. Now, if you’ve got any about you anywhere, I wish you’d call ’em up. I won’t run.’
“The people moved about away from danger, and I could see they were shocked at my foolhardiness. But the Conjure Man was too adroit.
“‘Brother Jenkins,’ he said, in a pitying tone, ‘I have the greatest ambiguity for you—I really has. You will be given a while for acceleration, and if you don’t submit to the tergiversation of the spheroids, you will be struck dead—next year.’
“At the dreadful malediction the brothers shuddered, and looked appealingly at me. I saw they firmly believed it was directly due to Doctor Jones’ magnanimity that the witches didn’t come sailing down on their broomsticks instantly and bear me away. The incident strengthened the humbug’s influence with them.”
Obeying the Lure of Buried Treasure.
Searching for Pirate Lafitte’s buried treasure has been one of the industries of Abbeville, La., for the past twenty-five years, perhaps longer. Parties come at intervals, each claiming to have a sure “tip” as to the location, and each returns empty-handed. But others do not learn from their experience. The lure of gold does not listen to reason.
These periodical searches are based upon the existence of supposed charts—one of which was drawn by the pirate himself, and two others by one Felton, said to be his secretary. The whereabouts of the original is not known, nor is it known that there ever was one, this being only the supposition of “Joe the Cattleman.” As to the other two, they are in existence and are signed by “Felton, Secretary.”
For several weeks a party of treasure hunters have been digging and surveying on “Outer Island” in White Lake, down in Vermillion Parish, for the supposed buried treasure. The party is composed of J.F. Stratton, capitalist, and M. Pearson, civil engineer, both of Houston, Texas, and others whose names are kept in the background. The Stratton-Pearson party have what they claim is a map of White Lake, but it is worn and the lines are indistinct. They dredged on a line which was supposed to mark the channel of a creek, and there, across the channel, they found the rotted timbers of an old vessel. They reason that Lafitte buried the gold on “Outer Island,” sunk the boat across a channel to blockade searchers, and in a little boat steered his course into Southwest Pass, and thence in to the Gulf of Mexico.
This rotted hulk furnished a “clew,” and the gold could not be far off, Engineer Pearson reasoned. It must be on the near-by Outer Island. He took longitudes and latitudes from a giant oak. From the rings on its trunk he estimated it was about five hundred years old. Perhaps, he reasoned, Lafitte would select this as the best landmark. He sank steel rods into the earth to a depth of six and eight feet, but struck nothing harder than dirt. After burrowing on every side, he changed his prospecting to another large tree, two hundred feet farther inland.
Pearson cut away the grass, and his hopes were somewhat shattered when he discovered at the base of this tree the outlines of a trench. The lines were traced to a length of twelve feet, and four feet in width. He excavated to a depth of four feet, when his shovel struck a few pieces of brick. The excavation continued until the entire trench was scooped out. Nothing was found but dirt. However, Pearson still believed he was on the right trail.
He returned to his camp, and next day went to the mainland and hunted up “Joe,” a cattle driver, who had lived in that section half a century. Joe stated that about seventeen years ago, while driving his cattle in the marsh for grass, he saw where some men were digging. In about a week he returned and the hole was six feet deep, and the men were gone. He did not know who they were, nor whence they came, but thought that they were Frenchmen “from a long distance,” and that they had Lafitte’s map—one made by Lafitte himself. Whether or not they got the money, he could not say.
Acting on the theory that the inner and smaller tree was not the point designated in the map, and that, therefore, the hole in the ground at its base signified nothing—perhaps only a cattle wallow—Engineer Pearson adopted another plan.
He again returned to Houston, and sought out one “Professor” Drummitt, an “expert” in locating minerals, oil, water, et cetera.
The engineer and the professor, with renewed faith and testing apparatus, descended upon the island and began operations. The professor stated that his compass and battery could find gold at a depth of two thousand feet, even though under water. The professor’s compass is in the shape of an oblique-angled triangle, with a battery at the apex. This battery is of copper, iron, gold, or silver, according to the mineral to be searched for, and is attached to the instrument by screws. Each of the steel prongs is held in the right and left hand, at an angle of about fifty degrees. The battery is attracted by the mineral and bends toward the ground.
The professor selected a hillock a few feet from the base of the larger tree, affixed the battery for gold onto the compass, and held it aloft. Finally it began to move, and then to bend down.
“There is the gold!” exclaimed the professor. “It is six feet down. The vault is of cement. It contains gold, but I can’t say how much.”
Acting upon this scientific tip, the engineer fell to digging with his spade. The soil is soft, and it did not take long to go six feet, being encouraged by the prospect of scooping up $7,000,000. But nothing was found, except mud.
The professor explained that the failure of his instrument was owing to the presence of salt water—that gold was there. But he could not explain the absence of cement. He wanted to make further tests, but the engineer had enough, and with disgust they returned to Abbeville, and the professor left for other fields. He was paid twenty-five dollars a day and his expenses and guaranteed the payment of one million of the stuff—if found.
While in Abbeville, the noise of the operations having spread, Pearson learned that there was another map giving the location of the buried treasure. It could not be the true map, according to the statement of Joe, the cattleman. But, as his own map was at fault, and the professor’s “compass” had led him astray, Pearson thought he would take a chance at this map.
Accordingly he rounded up the man with the third map, J.A. Davidson, a butcher in Abbeville. After several heart-to-heart talks, Davidson refused to unite in a search for the treasure. Evidently he wants it all or none, and has great faith in his map.
The story of these maps is something on the line of the usual maps locating pirates’ treasure—and which do not locate. After Lafitte and his pirates bold were chased out of the Gulf by the government revenue cutters, they sailed up Southwest Pass, we are told, and finally into White Lake. They planted their ill-gotten gold on the first island in the lake, known as Outer Island. It is not known how many were on the good ship, but tradition mentions Lafitte, his secretary Felton, and two negroes. After burying the treasure, they cut the throats of the two negroes, threw their bodies into the lake, scuttled one of their vessels, and sailed away.
Lafitte went to France and reformed, and like his ancestral sea robber, Francis Drake, was given a title. Under the title of “Count Languedoc,” he married and “lived happily ever after.” The historical statement that he died in Peru, a pauper, is thus controverted.
Many years after, when very old, Felton rigged out a ship at New York and sailed for the lake down in the Acadian country in Southwest Louisiana. The lake then had no name and he designated it on his map merely as a large body of water. While en route, Felton was taken sick, yielded up the ghost, and was buried at sea. But before dying he gave his map to his faithful body servant, Jim Ambroise, an octoroon. It seems that the conscience of the old pirate smote him, for he then confided in this servant his part in the killing of the two negroes. When the ship landed at New Orleans the crew scattered. Jim finally found his way into Acadia, and found work on a plantation in what is now Iberia Parish. When Jim came to die he gave the map to his employer, Captain Magee, who lived at Opelousas. He also handed down the story of the killing of the two negroes by Lafitte and Felton. It is this map Pearson is operating with.
And now comes the story of the second map—or duplicate, or key—neither being complete without the other. In earlier days, Davidson, the butcher, was an overseer on the plantation where Jim was working. When Jim died he also gave Davidson a map, according to Davidson’s statement. Jim did not tell him of the existence of another map, nor did he tell Magee that he had given one to Davidson. Both of them went in hot pursuit of the supposed hidden treasure, each believed that the other was shadowing his tracks. On one expedition, about ten years ago, Davidson lost his map. He thinks one of the party appropriated it, and he has ever since been searching for it, so that he could renew his search for the millions. The one he now has was made from memory.
Theater Poster in Gas Main.
In the office of the Peoples Gas Light and Coke Company, of Chicago, a large theatrical poster was recently displayed. It was printed in 1884, and announced, in bold red and blue letters that “Abraham Lincoln,” the stirring war-time drama, was appearing at the Chicago Opera House, and that on the following week Chicago theatergoers were to hear Minnie Hauck and her opera company.
Officials of the gas company explain that the poster is of interest to them because it was found in a six-inch main near the site of the old Chicago Opera House.
Chicago gas had passed through the paper tube for thirty years, but the colors were not faded, and the white paper was unstained, except for several spots of iron rust from the gas main.
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